


On the Air

by Zodiac



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Blow Jobs, Blowjob on the air, Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Tentacles, for science, supposedly, tentadick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 07:08:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/950171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zodiac/pseuds/Zodiac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos is intrigued by how Cecil seems to have a completely separate personality while he's broadcasting to the folks of Night Vale and secretly comes up with an experiment to see just how well this radio Cecil can do his job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Air

Another day within the homely, solitary town in the desert known as Night Vale, which meant that there was currently a disaster of sorts which would appear as though the very Apocalypse was beginning to rain down were it to happen anywhere else in the world. Although, that also meant that a certain Cecil Baldwin was also currently letting his honeyed voice work its way into the receiver settled before himself, allowing it to seep into the minds of his listeners, simultaneously soothing them with his calming voice and panicking them further by informing them of the terror which had decided to plague their little home today.

Panics and fears which were not the immediate concern of the one who then entered the normally-closed radio booth to join the host of the broadcast.

“…Oh?” Trailing off in the middle of a traffic report—which admittedly did not exactly aid any Night Vale citizen who required actual information about the traffic—Cecil swiveled slightly in his chair, expecting it to be one of his interns to hand him a letter from Station Management or an update about a recent news story, not his scientist in a shining lab coat that it had really ended up being. “Why, Listeners,” He continued on in his usual voice, attempting to mask his sheer joy upon seeing his partner here, in the radio booth with him while on air, and trying to calm his immediately hammering heart, “it seems as though we have been granted the audience of a most _unexpected_ guest. What could he possibly want from this humble radio host and why could he possibly have so rudely barged in during our routine traffic report?” Cocking an eyebrow at his visitor, the brow coming dangerously close to coming in contact with the bottom of his third eye settled above, he shot a wide grin his way, directing the teasing question more to him than his audience.

In response, Carlos silently raised a finger to press against his own lips, a silent plea for Cecil to stop talking about him—or at least to not let any more information about his identity slip to the listeners—as he carefully made his way over to where his dear little host sat comfortably, doing his best to not make any noise that that damnable microphone might pick up on. His purpose here, right now, was all for the sake of science, an experiment he had been wanting to run for quite some time now, but had only worked up the courage to actually go through with it today.

And, as any scientist worth his salt could tell you, having a biased subject due to an identity leak could very well lead to skewed results.

“Well then,” The host continued on, tone of voice now just the slightest bit put-off from having his show interrupted by seemingly nothing important, though his face still held that radiant glee he always had whenever Carlos was around, “it was merely an update on one of my previous news stories. Yes, your butter supply may have inexplicably turned into an octopus, but it turns out the butter octopus is completely harmless to you and is content to patter about peacefully amongst the insides of your refrigerator. I hear octopus tastes rather scrumptious, so you might as well catch your new chilled cephalopod, gut it, and use its innards as a butter substitute. Who knows? You might even end up liking it more than the real deal. Now that that issue has been cleared up, back to traffic.”

And that was when he suddenly found a certain scientist rather firmly nestling himself between his legs, a hand placed atop either of his knees.

Shooting a quick glance south, Cecil was only able to focus on that look of pure, unashamed mischief firmly locked onto his lover’s features, a look that could only mean one thing when he was in a position like that… After that realization, several silent moments were spent trying to coax Carlos from his place with wild hand gestures and mouthed, almost whispered threats before anything more could happen, an ineffective and futile endeavor. Even a few deep purple tentacles materialized from his back and phased through the fabric of his sweater vest, moving to gently tug at Carlos’ perfect hair and clothing to no avail. Finding that he was unable to physically move him without the inevitable ruckus being picked up by his recording equipment, he reluctantly surrendered the battle for the moment, turning his attention back to his neglected broadcast while silently praying to whatever dark gods that look after this cursed town that this wouldn’t lead to what he thought it was going to lead to.

Unfortunately for poor, poor Cecil, said dark gods currently had their own attention focused on one of their numerous other playthings—hopefully Desert Bluffs—and, as such, were unable to hear his mental begging, much less actually grant it. So, as that rich voice once more danced across the airways with just a tad bit more trepidation than it had just a few minutes ago, Carlos began his experiment, slightly shaking hands working on Cecil’s button and zipper, still somewhat unable to believe that he was about to do this himself. The one barrier holding him back from his prize was taken down quickly, despite his still-growing nervousness about the situation, and he then claimed it, fingers hooking into the waistband of both underwear and pants and pulling down as much as he was able to considering the host’s seated position.

It was a good thing they had already had the pleasure of sharing a bed prior to this particular experience or the tentacle unfurling from the place where normal, _human_ , genitals should have been would have given him quite the shock. As it was, he simply smiled at the smaller ones that formed a ring around the main, large tentacle as they wriggled about in the air, suction cups at the ends expanding and contracting slightly as they searched for something, anything, to firmly attach to.

Leaning closer to the squirming mass, Carlos figured he might as well appease them as well during this. Testing things was the exact point of experiments in the first place, afterall.

That velvety rich voice that had been, up to that point, filling the radio booth had now abruptly ceased, the retreat of it punctuated by a sharp gasp and a harsh crunching of notes being crumpled by a tightened fist as Carlos—dear, sweet, maddening, _damnable_ Carlos—had placed his tongue to the base of the deep violet tentacle which served as his cock and _dragged_ it up, slow and languid as though they were in the comfort of one of their own homes rather than being broadcast live to any and every one in Night Vale who was listening in. Of course, his traitorous body reacted quite positively to the attention, a clear, thick lubricant beginning to seep from the top of his main tentacle as it began to writhe in full, coiling and curling over itself to ensure the spread of the slick substance. The smaller ones, meanwhile, reached out to that strong jaw of Carlos’, a couple sticking firmly right to his cheeks while the rest crowded around those talented lips for a turn of their own, drooling that same secretion from their own openings within the rings of the suckers.

Oh, how Cecil would love to just watch him work his own brand of magic on him, to keen and cry and put every last aspect of his broadcaster’s voice to use in undeniable approval as he sucked and slurped and performed all sorts of lewd acts that no one could guess him even capable of from a mere glance… But he couldn’t.

He could do no such thing as long as that accursed ‘On Air’ sign was lit up, as long as that familiar, but now wretched, microphone was able to pick up every gasp, moan, and cry he had every intention of releasing were it not able to do so. So, he could do little more than continue on with the show, at least until he could get to the weather, those precious few minutes where he could do as he pleased without all of Night Vale being aware of it.

Clearing his throat, he pulled the microphone in closer to him, darting a final wary glance down with all his eyes—finding Carlos looking right back up at him with the most wicked grin he had ever seen on his features—before turning as much attention as he could back to his show. “I apologize for that brief interruption there, dear listeners. We seem to be having some technic- _ahl_ ,” Another lick, just as slow and _agonizing_ as the first, “d-difficulties. We here at the station doooo,” His voice cracked, rising up higher than it ever had been while he was live as lips clamped around the tapered end of his tentacle, sucking gently, “appreciate your patience and cooperation in the matter. N-now, for hopefully the final time, we have a look back at today’s traffic report.” His third eye, independent of the other two, narrowed down at the man seated between his legs, silently warning him that there would be consequences if it ended up not being the last mistake on air.

Regardless of how he dearly loved his perfect Carlos, he had both a reputation and a job to uphold and he was not about to let a simple whim from his lover potentially ruin both of them, or, at least, that was how the more confident and prideful side of him that arose whenever he was speaking to the citizens of Night Vale felt. With the coolness of his radio persona on his side, he felt as if he could do anything, even uncharacteristically snap at his partner for interrupting his show like this.

Of course, he wouldn’t have to if Carlos could just keep that wondrous tongue to himself…

“As I was explaining earlier before any _inconvenient_ interruptions,” That time, he managed to bite back the moan that had threatened to spill forth when the scientist bobbed his head down to take him deeper as retaliation, expecting something of the sort to happen, “the Sheriff’s Secret Police will be inst-ahlling,” _Damn,_ Carlos could suck hard if he wanted to, “inflatable c-cushions along the sides of the roads.” He was now beginning to squirm in his seat, trying to focus on the words in front of himself even as his mind was slipping away with the steadily-growing pleasure, those lips even now descending upon him proving to be the bane of his sanity. Just a bit more, just this last report to give, and he could switch off to the weather and just let everything loose.

Meanwhile, Carlos was doing everything in his power to keep it from being that simple. Licking and sucking away at the tentacle squirming in his mouth, he was more than pleased to find an aroused blush marring the host’s otherwise pale cheeks, the eye settled in his forehead also beginning to roll back slightly. Smirking upon seeing how well his experiment was progressing, he decided to hasten the delivery of his results, suddenly gulping the rest of the length down until his nose was flush with the wispy curls of pubic hair that lay at the base.

Ducking his face down and away from the microphone to prevent the next, and so far the loudest, moan being broadcast because of that heavenly slickness engulfing all of him, Cecil inadvertently ended up slamming his face into the surface of his desk, a harsh bone-against-metal ‘thunk’ that probably concerned his listeners more than the sound he was attempting to hide. That light pain overwhelmed with far greater magnitudes of pleasure proved to be his undoing. As that talented tongue slid across him and those muscles contracted even tighter around him with every gulp, any ounce of self-control he had managed to sustain up until that point shattered.

And every fiber of patience that he had snapped.

One hand darting down to fist that perfect hair, twisting the follicles in its grip, he used the other one to snatch the microphone and yank it closer to himself, intent on just getting this segment done even if he had to growl the words out to the citizens through gritted teeth. “These cushions,” He finally continued on in a labored, hurried tone, having to glance down at his ruined notes to remember what he should be speaking about, the tongue still lapping away not helping him in the matter at all, “will b-border the highways and roads akin to the bumpers Teddy Williams sets up at the Desert Flow-er Bowling Alley a-and Arcade Fun Complex for beginner bowlers. The Sheriff’s S-secret Police explain that this is to _aid_ weary drivers who may fall asleep at the wheel. Rah- rather than them f-ahlling asleep at the vehicle and sending it hurtling towards the sand dunes, said vehicle will now, hn, harmlessly bounce off the barrier and remain on the road.” Managing to bite back a blatant moan, he was far more than relieved to see that the section was nearing its end. “Despite being inquired about it, ah, they h-have not commented on the fact that t-this could cause cars to crash into one another r-ather than veering off to a side, thus potentially leading to one hellish game of bumper cars.”

“And now,” The voice was one of forced calmness, a sudden drop in the pitch, though it was still little more than a harsh breath against the microphone, “the weather.”

As soon as the corresponding lever on the switchboard was flicked, any sense of the broadcaster’s professional composure melted away and a strained warble echoed forth from his throat, the hand wrapped around the microphone abandoning it to join its twin in those wonderful, curly locks. His fingers dug into his scalp with the desperation of a man crawling his way back from the brink of death, little half-moons of pleasurable pain being carved into his flesh. Those same nails prevented Carlos from pulling away from his task, even going so far as to pull him right back down onto his writhing dick.

“Oooh no,” Cecil groaned out, head flopping forward to thump against his desk once more, unable to double over his perfect scientist’s head with it in the way, “you interrupt my show, you at l-least finish me off.”

Well, considering how Carlos had just used him as an unsuspecting guinea pig for an experiment on the air while all of Night Vale was listening in, he figured he owed his lover that much. Not that he had any intention of just leaving poor Cecil on the edge while he struggled to stammer out the remainder of his show after the weather.

So, he redoubled his efforts on the tendril in his mouth, tongue lashing along its length and cheeks hollowing around it. While he was focused on that one in particular, the smaller ones around its base writhed about before they gripped at his lips and cheeks with their suckers, another assurance that he wouldn’t be able to pull away until he had finished what he had started. The tentacles that had manifested from Cecil’s back, meanwhile, had taken to wandering. One of the thick limbs joined his hands to worship his hair, one dove beneath the collar of his shirt to tickle his spine, and the rest of them just squirmed over any inch of his body that they could reach, prodding and stroking every spot that seemed even slightly sensitive.

And—oh—how those touches spurred him on.

He arched closer to Cecil as that tentacle sliding down his back applied just the right amount of slippery pressure against him, releasing a shudder and a muffled moan at the attention. That drew a sharp, high-pitched cry out of the broadcaster, sending his back arching up against the back of his desk chair, following the curve of the seat down to a tee. He no longer appeared to care about any possibility of his interns or anyone else stumbling across them in such a position, any worries or concerns having been flicked off with the microphone. In their place was now the perfect representation of debauchery, his head thrown back over the top of his chair, a blush spreading all the way from the tips of his ears down to creep along his bared throat, countless droplets of sweat beading up from his pale skin, and obscene, choked noises along with an occasional cracked, “Caaarlos…” leaving his panting mouth with every exhale. His headphones had begun to slip from their place, both earpads now resting beneath his jawline, and all of his eyes were scrunched closed, shut tightly from the pleasure overloading his body.

It was searing in all the right ways, it was intense, it was _perfect_.

_Far, far too perfect._

And, as those cries of his lover’s name grew higher in both frequency and pitch, as his fingers twisted even more in that soft hair, as that massaging, slick tongue flicked right across the opening in his tentacle, that perfection proved to be too much for him.

A screech that was remarkably similar to a vocalization of some bizarre bird of prey tore its way up through his throat as his body tightened up, every muscle, each tentacle, clenching up with wonderful tension as intense as the heat that had been broiling in the pit of his stomach. That glorious fire that had bubbled and pooled within himself was unleashed with that inhuman keen, the squirming tentacle in the scientist’s mouth spurting globs of his sickly-sweet, thick cum down his throat, or at least, as close to it as it could get with all of its writhing.

Carlos let his partner’s orgasm run its course, managing to gulp down most of the gooey substance in his mouth, though some of it oozed out from between his lips to dribble down his chin. Pulling away from the now significantly less lively tentacles, he spit out any remainder of the stuff onto the floor, then turning his attention back to his thoroughly worn-out lover. Rising up to his feet, he chuckled, a warm, amused sound, and leaned forward to brush a patch of sweat-soaked hair across his forehead. “Still alive, Cecil?”

Almost reluctantly, the radio host opened an eye—the third one—to look at him, spending a few moments drawing in panting breaths before responding. “Y-yeah, though death by your hands, or mouth, in this case, would be a most enjoyable one.” Opening the other two eyes, he straightened himself back up in his chair, pressing his lips to one of the numerous sucker marks now littered about his scientist’s stubble. “Pray tell, dear, darling Carlos, why you risked interrupting my broadcast for such a lovely surprise?”

“An experiment. I noticed your attitude and mannerisms differ depending on whether you’re on the air or not, so I wanted to see just how well that radio persona of yours is at staying just that when under pressure.”

“The ultimate test of my abilities, huh?” Receiving a hum of affirmation made him smile slightly, mouth moving to press a quick peck against the other’s this time. “Well, I did say that I was ready and eager to aid you in any of your experiments…”

“Right.” Carlos nodded, stroking his thumb across his scalp. “And I might just manage to think up of some further tests in the future. But, for now, I have to get back to the lab and record this set of data.” Leaning down closer to his ear, he gave him one final parting statement breathed out against his earlobe before leaving quickly enough to leave him with no time to reply. “With a pen.”

The nerve of him sometimes, Cecil thought to himself. Saying such a rebellious thing like that and then just up and going with seemingly no care about how such a strong, self-assured statement affected him. Well, two could play at that. Moving his headphones back up to their proper position, he scooted closer to the microphone, voice back to its usual silken smoothness.

“Welcome back, dear listeners. You simply _will not_ believe what happened during the weather break…”

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this and wanted to screech at me in a manner similar to socializing, then you can find my Tumblr right [here](http://catsandcomposers.tumblr.com/).


End file.
